literature

My name is Tom Riddle and...

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Ever since I found out that filthy Granger girl was my daughter, things have been so drastically different, I can't even think of how to explain. I suppose she isn't so "filthy" now that I know she was the product of me and that overweight Muggle I met one night while drunk in the Leaky Cauldron. Of course, she always assumed that it was her balding husband that she had conceived that bushy-haired little brat with. I regret the day I ever walked into the Leaky Cauldron to find an unsuspecting Muggle on that dare from Peter Pettigrew. We were both drunk. One thing led to another and nine months later there came news that the fat woman had birthed a child, a girl. Couldn't even have been a boy. And of all the things she could name her, "Hermione." Sounds like something I stepped in, honestly; but, I digress.

I met up with her one day in the Three Broomsticks to have a chat over a few butterbeers. I was disguised, of course. Who would take well to Lord Voldemort taking a jot into a pub to have a drink? That's right, no one. Hermione didn't question it. Since she found out I was her father, nothing else seemed to faze her. So, we sat there, talking like we generally did, about her school work and my…job. She scoffed and then made a suggestion I'll never forget or regret agreeing to.

"Da—Tom," she took a deep breath, stopping herself. She'd been having trouble calling me "Dad" since she found out. I suppose being raised by a man she'd always assumed was her father brought that on. Anyway.

"Tom, I think it's time that you think about g-getting help for your…problem."

"PROBLEM?" I roared. She leaned back in her chair, as if to try to get away from my anger. I cleared my throat and lowered my voice.

"Problem? What do you mean 'problem'?" Hermione took a deep breath and nodded.

"Yes. I-I'm not sure that I can continue to acknowledge you as my father while I know you're still killing innocent people. I'm still not used to the idea that you killed my best friend's parents." I scowled at her.

"So, what do you want me to do, then, Mudbl—Hermione?" It wasn't without effort that I refrained from hurting her feelings. She was, after all, hurting mine. It wasn't like I could just stop killing people. It was an addiction. Apparently she knew this.

"I've…made an appointment for you to attend an Addicts Anonymous class at the YMCA." The words came out of her mouth like a knife and I stared at her for a long time.

"You. Did. What?" She could tell I was angry, I knew it. She didn't say anything for a while, as if she was letting me calm down. In reality, I was just trying not to off her right there. Eventually, though, I calmed down enough to look at the rational side of things. She was my kid. I supposed I could do one thing to please her before I died.

"What time?" I sighed. A smile spread across her face and I suddenly found myself feeling all warm and gooey inside. I really don't like that feeling


~*~


So now, I'm sitting in my chair, my black cloak dragging the floor, trying to avoid the eyes of the Muggles sitting around me. It's taking all of my self-control to not kill them all. The guy up at the front, my "sponsor" as Hermione had called him, looks at me and gives me what I'm sure he thinks is an encouraging smile. All it's doing, however, is annoying me more. I take a deep breath and stand up. My cloak makes that whooshing sound that I love so much. It makes me giddy and I chuckle. I step up to the podium and sigh.

"Uhh." Someone clears their throat awkwardly. I hear a few whispers. God, why can't I just kill them and go home? I take a deep breath.

"Uhm, my name is Voldemort and—" I'm cut off. Cut off before I even get past my name. I'm sick of this already.

"What kind of name is Voldemort?" It's coming from a kid in the back. He can't be more than 17 or 18. He's lucky we're around all these people or I'd Avada Kedavra his ass.

"I just mean, is it a nickname or something?" He's corrected himself. I bite my lip.

"It's a nickname. My name is T-Tom Riddle and I am an addict." A chorus of "Hi Tom" echoes through the place.

"Uhh, I guess I started feeling like I needed to…" I think for a moment. They don't need to know the extent of my addiction. "I needed my hobby when I was around 15. I never really thought there was anything wrong with what I was doing until recently. I recently found out that I am a father—" A bit of applause cuts me off. As if it's a wonderful thing to be the father of a bushy-haired, know-it-all little brat.

"And my d-daughter," I'm not used to saying that just yet, "Told me that she won't acknowledge me as her father until I get help for my…problem." Another round of applause catches my ears and I nod and step down. The rest of the meeting goes on as if nothing weird has happened. As if it wasn't odd that a cloaked guy with a face that looked like a flattened snake had just gotten up in front of them to let out his deepest…problems.  I pick up a rock hard cookie and get tapped on the back. I turn and my mood falls more. It's my stupid sponsor. He looks like one of those hippie guys, except that instead of a tie-dye t-shirt, he's wearing a set of purple robes with a pointy sort of witch hat. He's under the impression that I "think" I'm a wizard. He's trying to relate to me in hopes of making me feel better. He's got no idea that I really am a wizard and I could strike him dead at any moment. Either that or he doesn't care. I know I wouldn't if I had hair that looked like a mix somewhere between Dumbledore and Harry Potter, all grey and long, but spiky. He looks like a ferret could crawl out of his disgustingly greasy beard at any second. Even so, he pats me on the back.

"Good night tonight, Volds," he smiles. Volds? Honestly, why does Hermione have to be my daughter? I wouldn't be so worried about letting her down if she weren't.

"We'll see you next week, yeah?" He turns and walks away as I chuck the solid cookie to the ground. I think I just broke off one of my teeth on it. I suppose they probably got that oaf Hagrid to bake for them. I think about what my sponsor has just said to me and sigh. God, I hope not. I turn and walk out.
My name is Tom Riddle and I am an addict.
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